The Blogger's Speech
by CowMow
Summary: A sort-of sequel to "The Angel That Fell", including the two-years aftermath. Follows John through his brave funeral speech and doubts as his friend is no longer around, to his friend's return. John isn't that forgiving. Reviews are appreciated!
1. Chapter 1: The Blogger's Speech

A long silence hung like a hot, damp blanket on all the people attending the funeral. The simple black coffin stood right before the blogger, and he stared. Then, at long length, he looked up. "Dear Mrs Hudson, Molly, Lestrade. Mycroft." He cleared his throat, and continued. "Sherlock." His voice broke, but bravely the words kept coming. "And all the press."

He took a deep breath, trembling. "W-when Sherlock and I were waiting at a restaurant, erm, waiting for the bad cabbie to arrive, we had a chat. I asked whether he had a girlfriend, or boyfriend..." Someone on the room giggled, but was quickly hushed by some others. "He had not. He said: "John, you should know I consider myself married to my work." All that mattered to him, was his work. He lived for his work, his deductions. His showing-off. It's what he did best." A little quiver crept in his voice, as he looked at the silently crying women on the front row, Molly and Mrs. Hudson. Lestrade's face was very white, eager to hear more his eyes were constantly fixed on John's face, Mycroft just stared at the floor, his umbrella beside him.

"It was what he loved to do. He didn't care what others thought, said, felt. Just his work, that-that counted. You, press, took that. Just waiting for an opportunity to trample down a man you did not understand, but hailed just a week ago. Of course, you are all idiots." He looked across the room. It was very quiet. Bitterly he added: "Don't worry, practically everyone is."

A little smile appeared on the elder woman's face when she recognised the familiar words. Seeing this, John continued with renewed courage. "By taking this man's work from him, you took him from us, his friends."

He took another deep breath, trying to conceal the clear anger in his voice. "And congratulations, you succeeded." In the back of the room, the door opened and a woman in a suit hastily walked out of the door, followed by two cameramen. After the door was closed, John's anger had not vanished. "Eliminate all lies, and whatever remains, however displeasing and unfortunate, must be the truth. You see but you did not really observe." Suddenly tired of all the emotions, the blogger bowed his head and tried to inhale and exhale calmly. When he regained himself, he had tears in his eyes. With hoarse voice he tried to continue. "Shame on you."


	2. Chapter 2: The Blogger's Listener

At first, I didn't want to write a part two to this one, but I felt it needed a solution. So here it is. Part two: The Blogger's Listener. Please leave a comment, reviews are highly appreciated.

After this final words, the blogger stepped down towards the coffin. He laid his hand on the shining black wood and cast down his eyes. Then, resolute, he lifted his head. With flickering eyes, he look straight into the cameras of the CNN. "The man lying in here, is not my friend. It is a man you created by denying him," and he swallowed hard. "Sherlock, I know you can't hear me. Still, I just wanted to-to say..," but the small man couldn't get the words out of his throat, so he straightened his back, head up high, and walked stiffly to the front row. He sat down between Mrs Hudson and Molly. The landlady laid her hand on his knee, trying to console him. The funeral followed its schedule, the press tried to get some comments from John of Mrs Hudson, but neither of them was willing. John gave them all a look, helped Mrs. Hudson in the car and drove off. To his lonely flat.

Some six miles away, in a small, old flat, a man sat at a creaky chair behind a wobbly table. On the table stood a very new radio, and the man listened intently. His elbows rested on the table, his hands he had in front of his face, resting against his mouth. His black curls contrasted sharply with his white skin. His skin has always been white, but now it was whiter than ever. His grey eyes, normally hard as glass, were more shinier than usual. His straight back was crooked. Words, spoken out six miles away, lingered in the room. _A hoarse_ "_Shame on you_." _Silence_. "_The man lying in here, is not my friend. It is a man you created by denying him._" _Silence_. "_Sherlock, I know you can't hear me. Still, I just wanted to-to say…" Silence. _The tall man bowed his head, but did not turn down the radio, although these words felt like torture. Well-deserved torture.

After the ceremony had ended, the tall man stood up. His face was like marble, resolution was written all over his face. Half an hour later, this man entered 221B Baker Street. He knew his actions would cause pain to his friends, but he had too. He needed his coat, he said. But he knew all he wanted was to say goodbye to the fantastic moments with his friends. He stood there, in the middle of the room. There lay his violin, his coat hung on the peg, but his scarf was missing. John was wearing it, he was sure of it. He lifted his coat from the peg, walked down the stairs and made some scratches at the front door. John had to think it was a break-in.

But John did not return to Baker Street, so he didn't miss the coat. Mrs Hudson thought the police had taken it, or John, but she didn't ask any questions. What did a coat matter now her appartment was empty.

The tall man, in his coat, went to the old, musty place. Half an hour later, Molly knocked and entered. Her brown eyes were red and swollen, but her face wore a brave expression. "You got your coat back, I see," she remarked.

The thin man nodded, but didn't say anything.

"I brought you some coffee, and some food. Just in case you needed some, you know." She put down the thermos and some sandwiches.

"Sherlock?" The tears in her question made him look up at her.

"I don't think I can keep this up much longer. Seeing John like this.. And Mrs Hudson. Lestrade and your brother full of self-blame."

"Molly, I know," his deep voice was filled with compassion and sadness. "But I have to, I explained all to you. I'll wait one more week, than I will go after Moriarty's men. Do this for me, please." His minty eyes pleaded more than he could express with his words.

A week later, John and Mrs Hudson returned to the grave. A simple black headstone marked the place where their friend lay.

From a distance, Sherlock was watching. He saw his friend standing over the grave, trying not to give way to the flood of emotions. Sherlock could not get himself to look away, so he keep his eyes focused on his friend, who walked away with straight back, slight limp. _Moriarty was right after all. He, Sherlock did have a heart._ _And now, it broke_. At last, the sleuth turned away and walked slowely to the car, where Molly was waiting for him. She saw him advancing, softly she asked if he was all right. He looked in her eyes. The minty grey eyes pierced in the brown ones, or was it the other way around?

"Step in, your train will leave in twenty minutes," she said.

Fifteen minutes later, Sherlock was disguised as an old man. The transformation was phenomenal, even Molly had to look twice.

"Molly, will you look after John for me?" Sherlock asked quietly.

She nodded. "Of course I will. Will you keep me posted now and then?"

"Yes. And, erm.. thank you, Molly. For everything." _Was there a tiny bit of guilt in his eyes?_ He meant it. Every word of it. Brave little Molly.

"_Train for Paris is about to depart, the train to Paris is about to depart."_

"Good luck, Sherlock, please be safe" Molly murmered almost inaudible, but he heard it. Promised her silently he would be safe. Which cannot be said about Moriarty's men.

The train set off, slowly accelerating. He left London behind, about to face Moriarty's men. The remains of his web. He would destroy all. Alone. Because alone was his protection.


	3. Chapter 3: The Blogger's Coping

"Of course these pills work, Mr Johnson, but you have to take them according to the prescription," John Watson tried to convince his patient to listen to him. Mr Johnson still refused and shaked his head violently.

"Mr Johnson, I am the doctor here. I studied seven bloody years, you'd better listen to me!" John had lost his patience. Again. Happened quite often with this man, who was so very, very stubborn. Perhaps that's why he liked the man, really. Reminded him of… him.

He didn't have time for this though, he had to go to Bart's. Molly wanted his opinion on a murdered woman, a sort of second opinion. John had agreed, why not? Now he had to go, and only fifteen minutes to make it. He said goodbye to Johnson and his wife, and walked out of the house quickly. He took a cab to the hospital, and after arriving, went directly to the morgue. It was lit by some flickering cold lights, and the heating was turned off already.

Molly was waiting for him, and pointed him towards the young lady lying dead on the cold, aluminium table.

"What do you want to know, Molly?" John asked, turning back to the woman behind him.

"She was not strangled, and I can't find any poison in her, so perhaps you could help me out, a bit?" Molly asked.

He nodded and bowed over the body. He saw she had some dirt under her nails. He took a sample and examined it quickly. "Human skin, I think. Perhaps we can do a DNA check?" he proposed.

Molly nodded. "Probably leads us to the murderer, I know."

John opened the mouth from the woman and examined her throat and swollen tongue. "She had a peanut allergy. So the killer kissed her, as we can see by the smudged lipstick here, after he had eaten something containing peanuts. Probably on purpose, but not necessarily."

He straightened his back and fixed his eyes on Molly. "Surely, you could have figured this out as well. You're not stupid. I suppose there were antibodies in her blood-samples?"

Molly became visibly uncomfortable.

"What is it, Molly? Is everything okay?" John began to worry.

She quickly nodded, and sat down on a chair. "I just wanted to talk to you, about him, John."

John's lines sharpened. Not now! It has been exactly two years. Why now? He felt his stomach beginning to turn around.

"I know, John. But I promised. Him." Molly had a struggle to get the words out of her mouth, and daren't look at the man opposite her. "P-perhaps you would like to sit down.."

John narrowed his eyes for a very short moment, but he could see it really mattered to her, so he obeyed. "Tell me, Molly. What about Sherlock?"

With a soft voice she began. "Two years and one day ago, I locked down the morgue, planning to go home. There he was. I don't know for sure, it was dark, b-but it looked like he had been crying. He came to me, to tell me I mattered. No, that I counted."

"Yes?" John was not really sure he wanted to hear all this. "Molly, I am doing fine. Really, no need to comfort me by telling me he was a 'good man' after all."

"Please, let me finish, John. He wanted my help," Molly said, quietly.

"Your help on what?"

Molly now looked him straight in his face, the answer written all over it.

"Oh no, Molly, no. Don't, okay? Just don't," John hissed, feeling angry and trying very hard not to shout. The fact his friend had jumped to his death was hard enough. It was all that was on his mind, ever since that day. Knowing Molly helped him to die was even worse.

"John, listen. It's not like that. He knew what Moriarty's plan was. He knew he was going to die, so he, erm.. He needed me to, erm…,' it was very hard for Molly to say the truth. John's eyes were wide open, his lips parted a little. He had stood up, his hand clasping the table edge until his knuckles were white. "Needed you to help him do what?" John breahtlessly asked.

"To fake his death." Molly could say it at last. A two-years burden fell of her shoulders.

"Okay, what drug have you been taken?" John asked seriously, suddenly concerned about his friend's health and sanity.

Molly didn't answer.

"Okay, suppose you are right, and he is alive. Why telling me now?" John demanded to know. It was the way his therapist spoke to him all the time.

Molly took a deep breath. "He needed to sort things out, he said. Look, I don't know, okay? I just got a text, from him.."

"Show me," John demanded, suddenly feeling cold. "SHOW. ME. Now, please."

She took out he mobile phone, searched for the right text and then showed John.

He read, reread and re-reread, but still he could not believe his eyes. Yet it was there, straight, simple. Plain.

_Sent: three hours and 15 minutes ago._

**It's time, Molly.**

**- SH**

"Oh, no. I'm not taking this," John stammered. "Why would he do this? Why would YOU do this?" and with a very angry expression on his face he stared at Molly.

"Ms Hooper told you, John. He needed to sort things out," a familiar voice said.


	4. Chapter 4: The Blogger's Refusal

_Four hours earlier: somewhere in Russia._

A table and chair. The small room didn't have anything else in it, except for one man lying down and one man standing. The standing man rubbed his sore hand, and looked weary but also contented down on the man lying down. There was a little bit of blood on the standing man's face, that trickled from his nose. His face had sharp features, his eyes keen and fresh, but the tired look on his face seemed to spread slowly. He took his mobile-phone out of his pocket and dialed a number. Half an hour later some police-officers arrived, took the unconscious man with them in the car. An important looking man looked distrustfully at the thin, tall man and walked back to his car. The weary man didn't seem to notice. He walked outside the little shed and looked over the wide fields. Satisfied.

"Time to go home," he mumbled.

Another half an hour later, the man, wearing a long black coat with the collar turned up, was waiting at the airport. He didn't have any luggage, expect for a small, brown-leathered suitcase.

The news spread quickly. "Moran Captured" was the news everyone would be talking about within two hours.

London

"Hello Mycroft," John curtly said, recovered from the initial shock after seeing the text. _From Sherlock_. "Haven't seen you in a while."

"Hello John. Good to see you again," the elder Holmes-brother said.

"Still carrying your umbrella, I see." John tried to find a subject to talk about, but couldn't think of anything.

"Sherlock will land at Heathrow Airport in the evening. Care to join me, pick him up?"

John lifted an eyebrow. The gesture was filled with disdain. "With you? You betrayed him. So, no. Thankyouverymuch."

Mycroft fliched, but he didn't say anything. Then a little _unpleasant? _smile crept around Mycroft's mouth.

"What?" John snapped, starting to feel really angry.

"Oh, just that you got it all wrong. As usual, but that's okay. You'll find out soon enough."

John narrowed his eyes, and asked again: "what?"

Mycroft did a little turn in the air with his umbrella and said casually: "He lands at seven o'clock tonight. Want to come?"

"No…" John's respond lingered in the room. "I am tired of following and obeying the Holmeses. Goodbye, and don't give my regard to Sherlock, if you wouldn't mind."

He walked past Molly, who had been standing there, silently watching.

"See you, Molly," John greeted her, polite as always, although a bit more absent-minded.

Molly, after murmuring a vague reply, fixed her eyes on Mycroft. The brown ponds seemed to plead for permission to come with him. Mycroft saw it, and decided that it was better to have Molly with him than to go and pick up his brother alone. He nodded, and said curtly: "I'll pick you up at half past 6. If that's alright with you?" he quickly added, hoping she wouldn't notice how impolitely it actually sounded.

Molly was already too happy to notice, so she consented without wondering how Mycroft could possibly know her address. After Mycroft had left the morgue, she continued her day's work, wondering about Sherlock all the time. She had received a text now and then, mostly inquiring after John, sometimes to say he was fine, but she had never seen him after he left on the train, dressed like an old man. She closed her eyes while standing over a kid's dead body. She imagined his deep voice, dark curls, grey eyes, albast skin. Even the moments in the morgue, more than two years ago, passed her mind's screen. Sherlock had needed her, Molly Hooper, the dull morgue attendant. Would he need her today again? Or never again? Anxiously she watched the clock ticking way too slowly, until it was time to go home at last. Happily she closed the doors, raced home, ate a cold leftover from yesterday and took an hour to pick the proper clothes. Would he notice?

_Sherlock alive. Thank God_. That was all that occupied John's thoughts. _Sherlock. Alive. Not dead. _With trembling fingers he dialed a number. "Oh, hi, Denise. Would you mind calling off my other oppointments? I am not feeling well… Oh, I am not that ill, you know. Just a bad cold, headache… Thank you, you're the greatest," and he hung up.

As through a heavy fog he reached his home, opened the door without thinking. His thoughts were still in the morgue, reading the little message. _It's time, Molly. –SH _ Could it really be?

He sat in his chair, thinking how he missed some clues. Obviously, Sherlock managed to survive. Molly knew. Mycroft knew. _Who else knew?_

Suddenly an nauseous feeling overtook him, and he reached the toilet just in time. He threw up, and he sank down upon the floor and cried. He covered his face with his shaking hands and all the feelings and doubts of the last two years came out in tears.

He hadn't felt like this for the last two years. After the funeral he felt he had to be strong, for Mrs Hudson, for Molly.

"Oh, you arrogant bastard!" John yelled to the tiled wall of his small bathroom. His hand balled to fists he slammed the wall. "Bastard! Bastard! I hate you!" He sunk against the cold wall and sobbed.

John couldn't remember how he came through the day, but at last he watched the clock reach 7 o'clock, and, he didn't know why, but he made tea at a quarter past. Heathrow Airport took a twenty-minutes drive, Sherlock would be here at twenty minutes past seven. John felt no doubt. Sherlock would come. And John would tell him the truth. All of it. Tell him of the lonely years, the recurring dreams of him falling, the blood everywhere. Tell him of the haunting empty eyes, the pulseless wrist. Tell him how he much missed him, how much he wanted Sherlock to be back. To come back, to him. Tell him how much he loved him, and how much he hated him. He would tell him all, if only he came back.

But Sherlock didn't come.

_An hour ago: A twenty-minutes drive off._

Molly anxiously waited beside Mycroft for the doors to open, to reveal Sherlock. At last the doors did open, and Molly stood on her toes to spot Sherlock as soon as possible. Molly's heart skipped a beat when she recognised the dark curls she had missed so much. Her cheeks turned a suspicious shade of pink when he saw her too and smiled at her. Without thinking she rushed towards him, with the intention of hugging him, but halfway she suddenly stopped herself. What was she doing?

Sherlock saw it, and dropped his suitcase. "Come here, Molly," he said as he opened his arms. Molly stared at him. He was lean, the way he always was. She fell in his arms and cried softly in his coat. Over her head he looked at Mycroft, who was standing a little off. Sherlock stroked her back clumsily, but his eyes searched the hall. Mycroft shaked his head slightly. At last Molly let Sherlock go and wiped her eyes. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. I'm just so glad to see you again," she sniffed helplessly.

"It's alright, Molly. I am glad to be back too," he smiled down at her. Then he stepped towards his elder brother and shaked hands with him.

"Mycroft."

"Sherlock."

And for a very small slice of time the two brothers could look in each others's hearts. _Sentiment_.

"John's not here," Sherlock stated.

"No, Sherlock. He didn't want to come. Doesn't send you his regards either."

Sherlock's shoulders dropped for a second, but he recovered himself quickly.

"Do you want to eat something, Sherlock?" Molly asked, eager to cheer Sherlock up.

"The food in Russia is awful, I would love a good Irish breakfast," Sherlock admitted.

Mycroft smiled at his brother's words. "My car is waiting. Shall I drop you at John's?"

Sherlock shook his head. "No, I'll visit him later. Not now."

He lifted his suitcase and walked after his brother.

Molly looked from the one brother to the other, and, finally, let her eyes indulge in the looks of Sherlock.

Half an hour later, Mycroft's black car halted at Molly's house. When she stepped out, she bent down and looked at Sherlock through the window. "It's good to have you back."

"Thank you, Molly. For everything." A faint smile darted around Sherlock's lips.

"See you, Sherlock."

The window closed and Molly watched the car driving off.

He was back at last. And it was time too.

_Meanwhile in the car._

"You really don't want to…" Mycroft started, but Sherlock interrupted him. "No, Mycroft."

"Okay. You'll sleep at my place?"

"No."

"Hotel?"

"No."

"Sherlock!" Mycroft sounded irritated.

"Drop me off at 221B, Mycroft." Sherlock watched London through his window. How he had missed this city_. It's good to be back. If only… _

John watched the two teacups. He wasn't really sure what he wanted. Punch Sherlock for not coming, punch himself for hoping Sherlock would come by. He sighed and lifted himself from the chair. He needed sleep. But the sleep didn't come. Instead, all images and memories of Sherlock came back to John. Things he had put behind bars two years ago. Things he had never wanted to see again. He turned and rolled in his bed, but the sleep never came. So he was glad when time came to get up. Patients to visit, things to do.


	5. Chapter 5: The Blogger's Return

At the end of the day, John Watson was tired. And confused. Because when he got home, Sherlock wasn't there waiting for him, which he had been half-expecting. He decided to go and see Mrs. Hudson, to tell her the news. That is, if she didn't know already.

So he changed clothes and left for 221B Baker Street. He still had the key, somehow Mrs Hudson couldn't force herself to rent the flat again. Which was a shame, according to John. She needed the money, but John suspected Mycroft of helping her out now and then.

So when he arrived at 221B, stuck the key in the door and twisted it, he felt a bit of the old John returning. He inhaled the familiar smells and climbed the familiar stairs. When he opened the door of the appartment, the last thing he expected was to see Sherlock, sitting in his old chair, legs crossed, violin in his arms.

"Ah, John. There you are," Sherlock said, looking up from the violin.

John was stunned. He just stood there in the doorway, staring at his friend he had not seen for over two years. _He was beautiful_.

Sherlock got up from the chair and laid down his violin. "Hello John." He looked at John, and his features softened for a moment. "You look… good."

"No, Sherlock. I don't."

"Okay, you don't." Sherlock bit his lip, for a moment he did not know what to say.

"Where have you been, Sherlock?" John asked, a tinge of anger crept through his voice.

"France, Russia. Poland. The Netherlands, Belgium… Lots of places."

"Ah," John nodded, still looking at Sherlock. "Been busy, then?"

"Yes, quite. Are you alright, John?"

"Gee, Sherlock! After two years, boffin Sherlock Holmes finally bothers to ask. No, Sherlock, I am *not* alright!" John halted himself for a moment to gather his emotions and strength.

Sherlock said nothing, but waited.

"Two years, Sherlock. Two. Years! Do you know what that means? Seeing you falling every night? Imagining to see you in the streets everytime I go around a corner? Missing you every day! Every. Single. Day. Sherlock. Hearing all this news about cases we've done, people claiming these were all set up, that you were a fake?"

John needed to catch his breath, and Sherlock took the opportunity to say something. "John…"

John interrupted him before Sherlock could say two words. "No. I don't want to know how you did it. When you tell it, I am sure it will all be 'obvious' and I should have seen the clues. I just want to know if I mean anything to you." John looked the detective straight in the eyes.

Sherlock looked at John, his face a mask.

John smiled in disdain. "Obviously not. See ya, Sherlock." John turned on his heels and wanted to walk away. Sherlock reached him in two steps. He grabbed John by the shoulders and pushed him roughly against the wall.

"John, you might want to shut up now," he snapped.

John's eyes widened for a moment as he looked Sherlock straight in his face. His eyes were filled with anger. _Hurt?_ John wasn't sure, but he did know he was very angry with Sherlock.

He pushed Sherlock away from him, so that the detective had to let go of John's jacket. And without any further thinking, the blogger punched Sherlock in the face. There was a look of surprise on Sherlock's face when he fell down on the floor. John's chest heaved from cropped up emotions as he looked down on Sherlock.

Sherlock looked up at John, and suddenly they both burst out in laughter.

"Well done, John. I survived all Moriarty's men, only to be hit by my best friend upon my return." He padded his painful face and tried to stand up, but a bright smile broke through as he failed to do it quickly.

"Sherlock, this is insane! I'll get you some ice," and John disappeared in the kitchen, to return five minutes later with a bag of frozen peas. He threw it in Sherlock's lap and seated himself in his favorite armchair. He tilted his head a bit and looked intentively at Sherlock. "I still hate you, you know. In fact, I might punch you again," he said, some minutes later.

"I am sure you will, don't expect you to do otherwise," Sherlock lightly said. Then, again serious, he lowered his hand with the frozen peas and fixed his grey eyes on John. "I did miss you, John. A lot. Wanted to come back so many times, just so that I could forget Moriarty and come back to you. But, alas, Mycroft said he'd kill me if I did. I had to, you understand. You know how Moriarty works. Dicovered my weak spot, used it."

John nodded understandingly a couple of times during Sherlock's summary of these past two horrible years. Then he suddenly chuckled: "the look on your face!"

The consulting detective smiled as well. "Hungry?"

"Oh yes. Chinese? But don't think I have forgiven you, mr Holmes!"

Both men rised from their chairs and John walked towards the peg where he had just hung his coat.

"Are you coming, Sherlock?" John turned to see if Sherlock was already coming, but Sherlock was a bit closer than he expected him to be. Again Sherlock laid his hands on the smaller man's shoulders and pushed him against the wall, but not violently at all this time.

"There is just this one thing I want to find out," Sherlock whispered with hoarse voice.

John blinked, but didn't say anything, in fear he might spoil the moment. He had never expected Sherlock to be this close, in fact, he had never allowed himself to dream about this.

Sherlock placed his hands on the wall, beside John's head, and his eyes locked in John's. John felt the detective's warmth, and began to feel nervous. What was Sherlock doing?

Suddenly Sherlock moved closer, and all John could do was to stare at his lips. John closed his eyes and waited impatiently.

Then, unexpectely pleasant, Sherlock's lips brushed against John's. John's stumach made some weird movements, and he felt as if on fire. Without thinking he hid his hands in Sherlock's thick, dark curls and went with the flow. He answered the kiss and for some precious moments, John and Sherlock were the only humans on earth. It was John who stopped the kiss, and he said, feeling a bit embarrased: "I could never have dreamt this…" Sherlock smiled slightly, and removed his hands from the wall. "Come, let's have dinner."

John nodded and while Sherlock was descending the stairs, John waited a bit, his mind puzzled.

Sherlock had felt so alive. A living, breathing human. A loving human, and closer to John than any girlfriend could ever be. Sherlock was back. At last. And John was contented, nothing else to wish for.

John leaped down the stairs and joined Sherlock on the street. As they walked next to each other, John admitted: "I would love to hear your stories. How did you fake it?"

And Sherlock told, explained, listened until the early hours.

Afterwards they went home, both to their own bedrooms in 221B. John slept fine this night. Because Sherlock was the best therapist John could wish for. And he had come home, to John. Were he belonged.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: Thank you all so much for your fav's and reviews and support! Any tips and comments are still highly welcome, because I would like to improve my writing. I hope you've enjoyed this story, and that the ending is satisfactory to you :) Thank you for taking the time to read this!<strong>

**Kind regards, CowMow**


End file.
